


A Bad Destiny

by llaineybean



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Hogwarts House Sorting, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, BAMF Hermione Granger, Canon Rewrite, Dysfunctional Family, Epic Friendship, Evil Voldemort (Harry Potter), Female Friendship, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Girl-Who-Lived (Harry Potter), Harry Potter is Not a Potter, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Hogwarts Inter-House Friendships, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff Harry Potter, Hufflepuff Hermione Granger, Hufflepuff Pride, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Male-Female Friendship, No character bashing, Orphanage, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Voldemort is Harry Potter's Parent, in this house we love and appreciate lily evans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26880184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llaineybean/pseuds/llaineybean
Summary: ‘There was absolutely nothing about room seven of St Andrew’s Home for Children that would suggest the little girl who resided within its walls was abnormal in any way; and yet, Harry Evans was a very abnormal girl.’In which Harry is Voldemort's daughter.
Relationships: Cedric Diggory & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Marlene McKinnon & Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter
Comments: 42
Kudos: 139





	1. YEAR I. The Elixir of Life: The Strange Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a witch receives a visitor.

_‘If only you could sit by your ships untroubled, not weeping,  
since indeed your lifetime is to be short, of no length.  
Now it has befallen that your life must be brief and bitter  
beyond all men's. To a bad destiny I bore you in my chambers.’_

― Thetis to Achilles, The Iliad

* * *

* * *

**BOOK ONE:** _The Elixir of Life_

Room number seven of St Andrew’s Home for Children was, by all accounts, a perfectly ordinary dwelling. It had a sloping ceiling that was covered in a plain, inoffensive shade of off-white paint, scarred oak floors, and dirty angled windows that looked down on the street below. It was quite bare, with no furniture in it but an old wooden desk, a small wardrobe, and a creaky iron bedstead.

There was absolutely nothing about room seven that would suggest the little girl who resided within its walls was abnormal in any way; and yet, Harry Evans was a very abnormal girl.

For one, there were the circumstances of her arrival at the orphanage. While most children at St Andrew’s had been brought in by the police or given up at the hospital, Harry had simply been left on their front steps, barely two months old and wrapped in a blanket that was much too thin for a crisp September evening. Her only form of identification had been a small scrap of paper on which was written, in a narrow, loopy script: _Harry Jane Evans, 31/7._

Harry also looked very odd. She was unusually tall and spindly, all elbows and knees, and the clothes afforded to her were well-worn and overlarge, which only served to accentuate her scrawniness. Her face was strange and boyish, her almond-shaped eyes were startlingly green and piercingly sharp, and her wild, jet-black hair had been chopped short at her chin in an (unsuccessful) attempt to tame the rumpled chaos.

The strangest thing about Harry’s appearance, however, was the jagged scar on her forehead, which was etched into her skin like a bolt of lightning. Harry had had it for as long as she could remember, and she often wondered how she had gotten it. Had there been an accident? Had her mother and father been hurt? Was that why they were gone?

Harry thought of her parents frequently, fantasising about what her life would have been like if she had not been left at St Andrew’s. It was not that St Andrew’s was a particularly horrible orphanage— it was not dirty or run down, and the Sisters who looked after the children there were kind, if not slightly overwhelmed. St Andrew’s was as good a place as Harry could imagine an orphanage being, but she would much prefer to be living with her parents.

She could not remember what they really looked like, but Harry liked to imagine she had a mother who would read to her in a gentle voice, who was warm and patient, with a kind face and soft black hair; her father would be quiet and smart and loving, with bright eyes and the sort of tiny, old-fashioned glasses a librarian would wear.

And always, _always_ , she imagined her parents would be just as strange as her— because by far the strangest thing about Harry Evans was that she could do _magic_.

She knew this ought to be impossible; magic wasn’t supposed to exist. But, like so many things that ought to be impossible, Harry’s magic stubbornly insisted on existing anyway.

All of the magic Harry had ever done, she had done out of necessity. She learnt how to make objects move because she wasn’t tall enough to reach the highest books on the bookshelf; her scrapes and bruises healed quickly because she fought often and won rarely; and in the winter, when the walls of the orphanage grew cold, she could warm her entire body just by crossing her fingers and wishing hard enough.

Harry found immense comfort and joy in her magic. It was warm and familiar, the way she imagined coming home might feel. Sometimes, she even thought she could remember seeing someone else’s magic. In waking hours, the memory was vague and unclear, but in her dreams, she remembered it much better: a blinding flash of green light, a swift rush of cold air, and a burning pain on her forehead.

ᛋ

Harry found out there were more people like her on her eleventh birthday, when she received a visitor.

From the very beginning, Harry thought this was a strange occurrence. In the decade she’d lived at St Andrew’s, she had never had a visitor before. When Sister Margaret pulled her out of breakfast with news that a woman was here to see her, she hardly dared to believe it.

Her heart fluttered in her chest as Sister Margaret led her to the visiting room; when she entered, it stopped dead.

There, sitting on a threadbare couch, was the most beautiful woman Harry had ever seen. She had a kind face, warm, golden-brown eyes, and long, heavy waves of glossy red hair. A burgundy velvet coat hung loosely off her shoulders and flowed behind her when she stood, looking almost like a cape. She looked like an angel, and Harry couldn’t help but stare.

‘Harry, this is Ms McKinnon,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘She’s come to talk to you about— Well, I think I’d better let her explain.’

The woman smiled and thanked her, and Sister Margaret left them, closing the door behind her. There was a moment’s silence.

‘Er— Hello,’ Harry said awkwardly, taking a seat on the dusty couch across from her. ‘I’m Harry Evans.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Harry,’ she said, smiling warmly. ‘I’m Professor McKinnon.’

‘You’re a professor?’ Harry asked, hoping she didn’t sound as desperately eager as she felt. ‘What d’you teach?’

‘That’s actually why I’m here, you see,’ said Professor McKinnon. ‘I work at a school called Hogwarts, and I’m here to offer you a place there, if you’d like to come.’

There was a choked, burning sensation in the back of her throat as Harry realised, with no small amount of disappointment, that this was not the fairytale moment she’d dreamt of. This woman was not some long-lost relative or a kind-hearted stranger, come to take her away from the orphanage.

Then, something else registered in Harry’s mind, and she frowned.

‘Why _me_?’ Harry asked, regarding her with mild suspicion. ‘Why aren’t any of the others going to your school, too?’

To her surprise, Professor McKinnon did not seem at all offended by this new line of questioning.

‘Because, Harry,’ she said, her eyes twinkling conspiratorially, ‘Hogwarts is a school for magic— a school for witches and wizards, like yourself.’

Harry froze. There was an odd ringing sound in her ears, and her dejection was slowly washed away by a much warmer feeling— a feeling of pure exhilaration. The Professor must have mistaken Harry’s stunned silence for disbelief because she reached into some hidden pocket, withdrew a yellow envelope, and handed it to her.

The paper was thick and heavy, and it smelt like dust and old books. The address inked on the front ( _Ms H. Evans, Room Seven, St Andrew’s Orphanage, London_ ) was a deep, shimmering emerald. Harry turned the envelope over, her hands trembling, and saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake surrounding a large letter ‘H’.

Harry ran her hand under the seal, pulled out the parchment within, and began to read:

_Dear Miss Evans,_   
_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_

When Harry finished reading, she slid the page back into the envelope and looked back up at the Professor, wide-eyed. Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks and she couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few minutes, she said, ‘That’s really what I am? A— a witch?’

‘Yes, Harry,’ said Professor McKinnon. ‘You’re a witch.’

‘I’m a _witch_ ,’ Harry repeated breathlessly, her cheeks flushed with happiness. She let out a small, delighted peal of laughter before asking, ‘Are you a witch, too?’

Professor McKinnon nodded, which prompted Harry to ask a long string of questions, all of which were happily answered. Harry learnt about Hogwarts and its houses, about the Trace and the Ministry. There was another question on her lips, though, one she saved for the very end: _‘Were my parents magic, too?’_

And that was how Harry learnt about the man who killed her mother.

He called himself Lord Voldemort, but he was so terrible a wizard that most people were too frightened to call him by this name, even now. He rose to power two decades ago, using a combination of his magical talent, blackmail, and convincing rhetoric to collect followers and bring magical Britain to a halt.

Entire families had been wiped out, great buildings destroyed, knowledge lost, all in one man’s pursuit of power. Anyone who opposed him was killed, either by his followers or, if a person was particularly unfortunate, by Voldemort himself. People knew not to stand out, not to interfere; they kept their heads down, for it was much easier and safer to do nothing.

But Harry’s mother, Lily Evans, was not content to do nothing. She joined a group to fight against Voldemort the moment she was capable of doing so. She risked her life to defend her world from a group of people who believed she did not belong there, putting a target on her back in the process. Three times she was captured by Voldemort’s followers, and three times, through a combination of skill and luck, she escaped.

And then, just weeks after Harry was born, her luck ran out.

Lord Voldemort himself turned up at her home in Cokeworth, where he proceeded to murder the entire Evans family. Harry’s grandparents, her aunt, and her mother all were killed in the attack. But when Voldemort attempted to kill Harry, he couldn’t do it. Harry survived an infallibly deadly curse with nothing more than the scar on her forehead, and every witch and wizard in Britain knew her name because of it.

Voldemort disappeared that night, vanished into thin air. Some believed he had been vanquished, defeated, somehow, by an infant, but Professor McKinnon told her in a hushed, gentle tone, that it was very likely he wasn’t truly gone, that he was still out there somewhere, weak and frail, waiting to return.

As the tale came to a close, Harry saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly than she had ever remembered it before— and she remembered something else, for the first time in her life— a high, cold, cruel laugh.

Harry’s head was swimming, the laugh echoing in her mind. Her eyes prickled with tears that she furiously wiped away. Normally, she would have felt horribly embarrassed about such a childish display of emotion, but when she met Professor McKinnon’s eyes, she saw that there was sadness in them, too.

‘What about my father?’ Harry managed to ask, attempting to keep the strain— the hope— from her voice. ‘What happened to him?’

Professor McKinnon seemed caught off guard by this question, as though she hadn’t thought Harry would ask it, and it took her a moment to answer. ‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know. Lily never told anyone who he was.’

An hour ago, Harry would have given anything for all of this information; she’d always longed to know the name of the mother she had, once upon a time. But now all she felt was cold, hard anger; someone had murdered her entire family away— someone had _taken_ them from her.

Professor McKinnon glanced down at her wrist, where a shining golden watch was ticking away the seconds. ‘We’d better get going, Harry,’ she said gently.

‘Going?’ Harry frowned. ‘Going where?’

ᛋ

  
Diagon Alley, Harry decided, was the best street in all of London. It was crooked and disorganised, with shops that seemed to be built right on top of one another. There was so much Harry wanted to see, but Professor McKinnon swept her through the cobbled streets; they passed shops selling robes, shops selling cauldrons, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills and rolls of parchment, potion bottles and globes of the moon.

Harry barely had time to process any of it before they reached a neat marble building with towering columns that looked rather out-of-place amongst all the other buildings.

‘This is Gringott’s— the Wizard bank,’ Professor McKinnon explained as they entered. ‘It’s run by goblins.’

Harry nodded along as though she hadn’t just learnt that goblins were real and tried her best not to stare. Instead, she looked around at the vast marble hall. Aside from the hundred or so goblins reviewing ledgers and weighing coins, it hardly looked like a bank at all; it more closely resembled a palace.

Harry followed Professor McKinnon to a counter, where she lay a small golden key in front of one of the free goblins and said, ‘Hello. We’re here to withdraw money from Miss Evans’ vault.’

The goblin’s eyes flickered over to Harry, who smiled weakly. He did not smile back.

After some more questions, the goblin (whose name, he told them, was Griphook) led them through a sloping, narrow passageway. He let out a whistle that echoed around them in the darkness, and a metal cart came whooshing up the tracks that were inlaid on the stone floor. They climbed in, and, with a great lurch, the cart took off. 

They were hurtled this way and that, swooping and falling, taking dangerously sharp corners at breakneck speeds. It was the most fun Harry’d had in her whole life. When, at last, the cart came to a screeching halt, she clambered shakily to her feet, giggling breathlessly.

‘You will need to place your hand on the door as I turn the key,’ Griphook instructed. ‘If you are truly Harry Evans, the vault will grant you access, and the protective curses on the items within will be temporarily put on hold.’

‘ _Curses_?’ echoed Harry, with no small amount of concern.

Griphook grinned viciously. ‘Curses.’ He did not elaborate.

Wondering what in her vault could possibly warrant such protection, Harry pressed her palm to the door. Griphook turned the key, and the door to Harry’s vault swung open. Torches flared to life inside, illuminating the contents, and she let out a gasp. Inside the vault was mountains of gold and columns of silver. It was more money than Harry had ever seen in her life.

And the vault didn’t just contain money; there was furniture, too, that Harry assumed must have come from her mother’s house. A cracked china vase, a burgundy chesterfield, a dusty record player with several boxes of albums— but what caught Harry’s attention the most was a short wooden bookshelf, which was stuffed to capacity with well-worn books.

Harry’s eyes raked over the shelves for a full five minutes before she grabbed a few of the books that she recognised from her set book list: _The Standard Book of Spells, Magical Draughts and Potions, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ …

She opened _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ to the cover page and saw, written in a beautiful swooping script: _This book belongs to Lily J Evans._

Harry’s heart leapt into her throat.

A quick flip through the rest of the books revealed that all of them had belonged to her mother. Not only that, but some of the books had little doodles and notes in the margins. Page 30 of _Magical Draughts and Potions_ even had what looked like a conversation between her mother and another student; it was an inane dialogue about going to the library, but Harry, who had never seen her mother’s handwriting before, savoured every letter of it.

Harry shoved as many of the books into her bag as she could, scooped several large handfuls of gold coins into her pockets, and they were off once again.

ᛋ

Professor McKinnon remained at her side throughout the day, something which Harry found she was grateful for, because she had never had very much money before, and it took a lot of restraint to keep from buying an entire rainbow of ink bottles or robes with twenty more pockets than any sane person needed.

Harry did indulge here and there, though. At _Scrivenshaft’s Stationery_ , she bought a very pretty set of glass straight pens (‘You might get some odd looks, but these are much better than quills,’ the shopkeep advised), _Wisacre’s Wizarding Equipment_ sold her a handsome leather trunk that was guaranteed to open only for her, and she sampled one of every chocolate _Sugarplum’s Sweets Shop_ sold.

Harry had just finished eating something called a Peppermint Toad when Professor McKinnon steered her towards a large brick shop with a gleaming sign that read: _Flourish and Blotts_.

Harry’s eyes widened as she looked at the window display, which was filled with books of all different sizes and colours. She almost ran inside.

If the window display was wondrous, the shop itself was doubly so. Rows and rows of bookshelves lined the walls, and tables in the centre of the shop held still more books, some large, some small, with titles ranging from _Grimoires: A History of Spellbooks_ to _Everyday Magic_ to _The Encyclopaedia of Bat Eyes_.

After picking up a copy of _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ and _Magical Theory_ (the only textbooks she hadn’t found in her vault) Harry ventured further into the shop, towards the history section. _A History of Magic_ seemed much too thin a book to cover the _entire_ history of this strange new world.

After several minutes of contemplation, Harry grabbed _Magic in the Ancient World_ , _Medieval Magic_ , and _Modern Magical History_ , and she was about to head to the front of the shop when she spotted it. 

It was a small and unassuming book, but on the spine, in gleaming golden letters, was the title: _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, from Herpo the Foul to the Girl-Who-Lived_.

Harry’s stomach seized up. Logically, she knew that it made perfect sense for her to be in a book on the history of Dark Wizards (she had apparently defeated one, after all), but that didn’t make it any less bizarre when she read her full name on the inscription on the back.

_‘On the Autumnal Equinox of 1980, muggleborn Lily Evans of Lincolnshire was slain by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. Her daughter, Harry Jane Evans (blood-status unknown), remains the only known survivor of the deadly Killing Curse…’_

It was with shaking hands that Harry slipped the book into her basket.

ᛋ

Time passed quickly, and before she knew it, Harry found herself at the last stop of the day, a narrow little shop called _Ollivander’s_. 

Harry looked around the small shop in awe. Thousands of wands lined the walls, packaged in narrow boxes and stacked in neat columns that stretched to the ceiling. It was perfectly silent and still, save for a little bell that tinkled in the back of the shop when customers entered.

‘Good afternoon,’ said a quiet voice; it was soft and papery, hoarse in the way voices tend to become upon reaching old age. And he _was_ quite old, with snow-white hair and milky, pale eyes that seemed to shine as he stared at her.

‘Hello,’ Harry said awkwardly.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you here soon. Harry Evans.’

Harry, who was still quite unused to being recognised by perfect strangers, nodded, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Mr Ollivander did not seem to notice her discomfort.

‘You have your mother’s eyes,’ he went on. ‘It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.’

There was a choked, burning sensation in the back of Harry’s throat at the mention of her mother, but if Mr Ollivander noticed her discomfort, he did not show it. He had now come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see herself reflected in his misty eyes.

‘And that’s where…’ Mr Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead with a long, white finger. ‘I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it… Thirteen and a half inches. Yew…’

Harry blinked. She had not considered the possibility that Voldemort had once been a child, too; that he had once gotten a letter telling him he was special; that he had once stood in this shop— perhaps in the very spot she stood now— and held a wand for the first time.

‘You sold Voldemort—’ Mr Ollivander winced ‘— his wand?’

‘I have sold many wands, to many wizards… But of course, if I had known what that wand was going out into the world to do…’ Mr Ollivander said sombrely, giving a shake of the head.

It was then that, to Harry’s great relief, Mr Ollivander spotted Professor McKinnon.

‘Ah, Marlene! How lovely to see you again,’ he said, smiling fondly. ‘Fir and dragon heartstring, wasn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Professor McKinnon said brightly. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘An excellent wand, that one. Some of my finest work,’ Mr Ollivander remarked; then, he turned back to Harry and nodded. ‘Well, then, Miss Evans— let us begin!’

He pulled out a tape measure, which promptly began taking her measurements all on its own, and retreated to the back of the store. When he emerged a few minutes later, his arms were laden with boxes.

‘Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just give it a wave.’

Harry took the wand eagerly, but Mr Ollivander snatched it out of her hand almost at once.

‘Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try—’

Harry tried— but she had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr Ollivander.

‘No, no— here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.’

She tried, but Ollivander stopped her even faster than he had previously. He handed her a third wand, then a fourth, then a fifth. Harry grew increasingly frustrated as the wands began to pile up on the counter, but Mr Ollivander carried on determinedly.

‘Tricky customer, eh?’ he said with a smile. ‘I wonder— yes, why not? An unusual combination, but… Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.’

The wand warmed instantly in Harry’s hand and her frustration melted away, replaced by an exhilarated thrill that knocked the air from her lungs and sent her heart racing. She held the wand for a moment, savouring the feel of it in her hand, before she slashed the wand through the air. A stream of golden sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls.

Professor McKinnon beamed down at her, and Mr Ollivander cried, ‘Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…’

Mr Ollivander took back the wand and began wrapping it up, muttering and carrying on mysteriously until Harry grew so exasperated that she could no longer stand it.

‘ _What’s_ curious?’ she asked, her tone a bit more demanding than she had intended. She flushed and added a belated, ‘Sir?’

Mr Ollivander gave her a long, searching look before he said, ‘What is so curious, Miss Evans, is that your wand is one half of a pair, a set of twins containing feathers from the same phoenix. And while this wand has been waiting for you for a very long time, its brother found a master much sooner— in the very wizard who gave you that scar.’

‘Oh,’ she said faintly.

‘Yes, I remember it well. Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful, very powerful, and in the wrong hands…’

The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stood on end as she stared down at the innocuous box, which lay half-wrapped on the counter between them. The overwhelming elation she’d felt upon finding it seemed slightly ominous now: it could not be a mere coincidence that, of all the wands in this shop, she should receive one so intimately connected to Voldemort’s.

Harry wondered, bitterly, if there was any part of her life that was not somehow affected by him.

‘It is curious how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, after all. I think we must expect great things from you, Miss Evans… After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things— terrible, yes, but _great_.’

Harry had absolutely no idea how she was supposed to respond to _that_ , so she remained silent as Mr Ollivander handed Harry the parcel containing her wand. It looked so plain, so deceptively ordinary. If Mr Ollivander had not told her, she would never have guessed there was a relation between her wand and Voldemort’s. Part of her wished he had not told her at all.

Harry paid for her wand, but as Mr Ollivander bowed them out of the shop, he did not say goodbye. Instead, he said, in his strange, misty voice, ‘Use it well.’

ᛋ

The holly wand waited patiently in its packaging, through the journey back to St Andrew’s until, late in the evening, Harry finally pulled it out of her rucksack and set it on her bed.

She stared down at it for a long moment before slowly, cautiously, she unwrapped the wand and removed it from its box. Her fingers began to tingle with warmth, as though her skin itself was buzzing with excitement. With a determined nod, she picked up _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ from her desk, and opened it to a bookmarked spot in the seventh chapter.

She had read the passage about this charm at least ten times throughout the day, but still, Harry spent several minutes examining the diagram on the page.

Then, she took a deep breath and pointed her wand at one of the other books on her desk.

_‘Wingardium Leviosa!’_

With a swish and a flick and a great deal of hope, _A History of Magic_ shot into the air. Up, up, up it went until it crashed against the ceiling with a loud _THUNK!_

Harry winced, hoping nobody had heard. She definitely had not meant to do _that_.

Carefully, she lowered her wand, and the book descended with it. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she slowly brought her wand back up; the book followed, gently rising in the air. To Harry’s relief, it didn’t crash into anything.

‘I did it,’ she said quietly, hardly daring to believe it; then, she burst into delighted laughter, which rang high and clear through the silence of the room. ‘I did it!’

It was, of course, at this exact moment that the spell broke, and the book came tumbling down. But Harry couldn’t bring herself to care; she had just done _real_ magic, a _real_ charm.

She stared down at the holly wand, her ears ringing, excitement burning high on her cheeks. She turned it over and over again in her hands, examining every beautiful detail of it: the grain of the wood, the smoothness of the handle, the way it seemed to shine in the dim light of her room.

Its brother might have done terrible things, thought Harry, but this wand belonged to her— it obeyed _her_ — and as long as it did, this wand would not follow in its brother’s footsteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've had this idea stuck in my head for months now, and I'm finally getting to it. A lot of things will be different in the world of this fic (partially due to the butterfly effect, partially due to my own whims) but there will still be a lot of familiar plot elements.
> 
> I would also like to add that writing is just a hobby of mine and I am not (nor do I claim to be) a 'real' author. The entire point of writing this is to have fun. I love getting comments and questions, but please keep things kind, even if you don't like the story. Thank you.


	2. I. The Wrong Sort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a witch can decide the wrong sort for herself, thank you very much.

Harry spent the entirety of August preparing for her new life, poring over her books for hours on end. She learnt about magical history and traditions; she read about potions and charms and how to turn needles to matchsticks; she practised her wand movements and learnt how to write with her new dip pens (a task that was somehow both easier and harder than she expected). 

By the first of September, Harry was as ready as she could possibly be.

She woke early that morning, before daybreak, and was too excited and nervous to even bother going back to sleep. She got out of bed, put on her best pair of denims (she thought it would look rather conspicuous to take the Underground in her witch’s robes), sorted through her trunk one final time, and paced her room, waiting for the sun to rise.

One quick breakfast of eggs and toast, two line transfers, and a harrowing run through a ticket barrier later, Harry was standing on a hidden platform in King’s Cross Station, staring up at a beautiful scarlet steam engine. 

The thick white steam that billowed from the train sunk in the cold air, obscuring the figures standing on the crowded platform. Owls hooted to each other over a chorus of meowing cats and the babbling of excited children and fretting parents. The words _Hogwarts Express, 11 o’clock_ , shone on a sign overhead.

The air seemed to hum with the same dormant magic she had felt in Diagon Alley, and Harry shivered, glad she was wearing an old red jumper over her faded blouse. (Once, the blouse had been new, and had been either grey or brown, but many years of wearing and washing had faded it to a colour that was neither brown nor grey, but instead combined the absolute worst features of both.)

The red jumper, on the other hand, had never been new; it had come from one of the charity bins sent to St Andrew’s by a nearby parish. It didn’t stand out much in the Muggle world— certainly, nobody on the Underground had even looked twice at her— but beside the lush, jewel-toned robes on the nearby wizards, Harry felt rather scruffy.

Harry pressed nervously through the crowd, dragging her trunk behind her until she found an empty compartment near the end of the train. She put her rucksack inside first, then started to shove and heave her trunk towards the train door. She tried to lift it up the steps, but she could hardly raise one end and wound up dropping it on her foot. She swore under her breath.

‘Do you need help with that?’

Harry swung round. An exceptionally handsome boy with dark hair stood behind her, his bright grey eyes sparkling with amusement as he watched her fight with the trunk.

Harry nodded sheepishly. ‘Yes, please.’

The boy grinned and heaved her trunk up the stairs, tucking it away into a corner of the compartment.

‘Thanks,’ said Harry, pushing her sweaty fringe out of her eyes.

‘Don’t mention— Wait, is that—?’ he said suddenly, his eyes fixed on Harry’s lightning scar. ‘Are you _Harry Evans_?’

‘Er— Yes, I am,’ Harry said awkwardly, feeling herself go red.

The boy stared at her for a long moment; then, as though he had suddenly realised what he was doing, he shook himself and stuck out his hand.

‘Sorry,’ he said, looking somewhat abashed. ‘I should introduce myself. I’m Cedric Diggory.’

Harry gave his hand a shake, still blushing fiercely; then, to her immense relief, a woman’s voice came floating in through the train’s open door.

‘Ced? Are you in there?’

‘One second, Mum,’ he called, before looking back at Harry. ‘Nice to meet you, Evans. Maybe I’ll see you in Hufflepuff.’

With one last crooked grin, he turned round and hopped off the train.

Harry sat down on the velvet upholstery, buzzing with nervous excitement, and stared out the window. The platform was filled with families, and Harry watched them mill about for a moment, saying their tearful goodbyes, before she dug one of her new books out of her rucksack and started to skim through it.

Soon, the train began to move, and out of the corner of her vision, Harry could see colours flashing past the windows as they sped out of the station.

The compartment door slid open suddenly, revealing a girl in the doorway. She had a small, inquisitive face with bright brown eyes, surrounded by a mass of bushy brown hair.

‘Is that seat taken?’ the girl asked, pointing at the set opposite Harry.

Harry shook her head. The girl opened the door fully, and Harry could see that she was already in her uniform, which looked new and flawless, and Harry was, once again, very aware of her own shabby appearance. She resolved to change into her new robes before getting off the train.

‘Oh, is that _Modern Magical History_?’ the girl asked suddenly, noticing the book in Harry’s hands. 

Harry nodded. 

‘Do you like it much? I’ve read it as well, of course; I got a few extra books for background reading,’ said the girl. ‘Nobody in my family is magic at all, you see, so it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course. My name’s Hermione Granger, by the way. Who are you?’

She said all of this very fast, and Harry wondered how she could manage to say so many words without even pausing for breath.

‘It’s all-right, I suppose, but I liked _Medieval Magic_ better,’ Harry said after a moment. ‘I’m Harry Evans.’

‘Are you really?’ said Hermione, looking at her with undisguised curiosity. ‘I’ve read all about you, of course. You’re in that book you’re reading, you know.’

Harry winced; she had hoped Hermione, also being from the muggle world, would have no idea who she was.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to learn all I can. I didn’t know anything about being a witch or about my mum or Voldemort before Professor McKinnon told me, so I’ve still got loads to learn… I bet,’ she added, voicing for the first time something that had been worrying her a lot lately (despite all the effort she’d put into her studies), ‘I bet I’m the worst in the class.’

‘Well, I’ve tried a few simple spells for practice, and they’ve all worked for me,’ Hermione said confidently. ‘We can study together, and I’ll show you how to do them properly if you have trouble.’

For a moment, Harry was struck silent by the offer. Harry had never had a friend before, but she got the feeling that Hermione Granger would be an excellent one to have.

‘Yeah,’ she said at last, a grin overtaking her face. ‘Yeah, I’d like that, thanks… So, what subjects are you looking forward to?’

Hermione’s face lit up. ‘Transfiguration,’ she said at once. ‘But really, all of them sound wonderful, don’t they? I’ve learnt off all our set books by heart, actually—’ 

And she was off, listing all the books she had read and opining on the merits of each. As she talked, the train carried them out of London, speeding past fields full of cows and sheep.

Around half-past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door. She was pushing a trolley full of packaged sweets, and Harry leapt eagerly to her feet; she hadn’t had sweets since her trip to Diagon Alley and she wasn’t sure when she’d have another opportunity to buy some.

She grabbed several armfuls of Chocolate Frogs and Cauldron Cakes, stuffing them into her rucksack and eventually piling them up on the seat as both the trolley woman and Hermione looked on with similar disapproving frowns.

‘You must be very hungry,’ said Hermione, as the trolley clattered away. She was holding a single pack of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum.

‘I like chocolate,’ Harry said defensively. ‘Besides, I’m starting up a collection of Chocolate Frog cards.’ This was, of course, a lie, but if Hermione saw through it, she didn’t say so.

‘Are they really that good?’ asked Hermione, who was watching with great interest as Harry tore through her third Chocolate Frog in a row. ‘I’ve never had chocolate before.’

Harry gaped. ‘You’ve _never_ had chocolate?’

‘My parents are dentists,’ she said, as though that explained everything.

Sweets were a rarity for her, but Harry couldn’t imagine living without them entirely. She looked at the stash of Chocolate Frogs filling her rucksack and said, ‘Do you want to try some?’

Hermione bit her lip, eyeing the packages with trepidation.

‘Go on, take one,’ said Harry.

Hermione reached out and tentatively grabbed a Chocolate Frog; she paused only for a moment before unwrapping the package and taking a bite. Harry couldn’t help but giggle at the way Hermione’s eyes widened in delighted surprise.

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ she said through her laughter.

‘They’re delicious!’

‘If, er— If you want more, you can have some. I don’t mind,’ said Harry, and she was surprised at how much she meant it.

At St Andrew’s, sharing was unheard of— if you had enough of something to share, you didn’t just give it away— but it felt nice, sitting with Hermione, unwrapping chocolates and swapping cards of famous witches and wizards.

  
ᛋ

  
After Harry had eaten as much as she could (collecting a handful of cards in the process), she and Hermione settled into an easy silence. The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder, the neat fields giving way to twisting rivers and dark green hills.

There was a knock on the door of the compartment, and next moment, the door slid open.

This time, there were two people in the doorway, both of whom were boys. The first was quite tall— even taller than Harry— with red freckles and even redder hair. He was also in his uniform, though his already looked much more dishevelled than Hermione’s. He had a streak of dirt on his long nose. The second boy was short and blond, with a round face, rosy cheeks, and a bright smile. A fat little toad was croaking happily away in his hands.

‘Hello,’ said the red-haired boy. He was slightly out of breath. ‘Mind if we sit here? Everywhere else is full.’

Harry looked over to Hermione, who frowned slightly. ‘We’ve been on the train for over two hours,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘Of course everywhere else is full.’

The blond boy flushed. ‘We’ve been busy looking for Trevor,’ he said, gesturing to the toad in his hand. ‘He escaped.’

Hermione’s frown deepened, but she nodded anyway. ‘I suppose that’s all right, then— if you’re OK with it,’ she added, turning to Harry.

Harry nodded. ‘Sure. There’s plenty of room.’

The boys sat down, the red-haired one beside Hermione, the blond beside Harry. Hermione set about introducing herself to both of them, shaking their hands in an overly-formal manner. Harry fought very hard not to laugh.

The red-haired boy, who had introduced himself as Ron Weasley, looked over at her. ‘What about you? What’s your name?’

‘Harry Evans,’ she said.

Ron’s eyes went wide. ‘Have… Have you really got— you know—?’ He pointed at Harry’s forehead. 

Harry nodded and pushed her fringe out of her face to show her scar.

‘Wow,’ Neville, the blond boy, breathed. He was looking at her with wide, awestruck eyes. ‘Mum and Dad said you’d be at Hogwarts with me, but I didn’t think I’d meet you so soon.’

Harry shifted uncomfortably. She supposed their reverent attitudes were better than the ostracisation she received from her peers in primary school, but not by very much.

‘Do either of you know what house you’ll be in?’ Hermione said suddenly. ‘I’ve read all about them and I hope I’m in Gryffindor; it sounds by far the best, I hear Dumbledore himself was one, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad.’

Ron and Neville looked briefly taken aback at the obvious change in subject, but, to Harry’s relief, they both seemed to give in.

‘My mum and dad were in Gryffindor,’ said Ron. ‘I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, either, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin.’ He shuddered.

Harry frowned. ‘What’s wrong with Slytherin?’

‘Well, everyone knows that’s where all the dark wizards come from,’ Ron said matter-of-factly. ‘You-Know-Who was one.’

Harry strongly doubted the veracity of Ron’s claim that _all_ dark wizards had been Slytherins, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she said, ‘I think I’d like Hufflepuff— They seem like a friendly lot.’

‘They are,’ Neville said brightly. ‘My mum was a Hufflepuff, and she really liked it there. But I’m hoping for Gryffindor, like my dad.’

‘My Aunt Muriel says Hufflepuff is for the people who couldn’t make it into the other houses,’ said Ron, but at Neville’s displeased look, he added, ‘But she’s batty, anyhow.’ He shrugged. ‘All my brothers have been Gryffindor, though.’

Harry perked up. Having lived most of her life in an orphanage, she found other people’s siblings immensely interesting. ‘You have brothers?’ she said. ‘How many?’

‘Five. Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George,’ said Ron. ‘Bill and Charlie have already graduated. Percy’s a Gryffindor Prefect, and Fred and George are third-years. I have a sister, too: Ginny. She’s coming next year.’

‘Wow,’ said Hermione, who looked mildly overwhelmed at the thought of such a big family. ‘I’m an only child.’

‘I am, too,’ Neville said. ‘I wanted siblings, but dad got me Trevor instead, and I think I like him better.’ He held up his toad. ‘What about you, Harry? I heard you live with Muggles.’

Harry fidgeted nervously with the sleeves of her jumper. ‘Er— yeah, I do, sort of,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But not with a family or anything… I live in an orphanage.’

Ron and Neville exchanged confused looks, while Hermione’s eyes went wide.

‘An _orphanage_?’ she repeated. ‘I didn’t even think those existed anymore!’

‘Well, they don’t, really,’ said Harry. ‘St Andrew’s is one of the last. Sister Margaret says it’s a miracle its still open.’

‘Sorry, but what’s an orphanage?’ Neville asked sheepishly.

‘An orphanage is a place for children whose parents are dead or can’t take care of them,’ Harry explained. ‘There used to be loads of them, but there aren’t many left anymore. They don’t like to split families up, so some orphans go to live with aunts or uncles or grandparents and the ones who don’t can sometimes get adopted by new parents, but, er— I haven’t.’

‘Oh,’ said Neville, who was looking pensive. ‘We don’t have anything like that, really. Mostly because wizarding families are all related—’

It was at that moment that the compartment door slid open once more.

In the doorway stood a trio of boys. The boy on the right was lean and stringy, with a square jaw and even squarer glasses. His dark brown hair was close-cropped and neatly styled, and his uniform was crisp and new. The boy on the left was easily the most handsome of the set. He was tall and Black, with dark eyes and an easy smile on his elegant face. Between them both was a pale boy with sharp, pinched features and hair so blond it was almost white.

The blond boy spoke first. ‘Is it true?’ he said. ‘They’re saying all down the train that Harry Evans is in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said uneasily. ‘That’s me.’

‘My name’s Malfoy,’ he said importantly. ‘Draco Malfoy. This is Blaise Zabini—’ He gestured to the Black boy, who gave a nod. ‘— And Theodore Nott.’ The spectacled boy appraised her coolly.

‘Oh. Er— It’s nice to meet you all,’ said Harry. ‘This is Neville Longbottom, and Ron—’

Malfoy cut her off with a slight sneer. ‘Weasley, of course. I know.’ He turned to Hermione. ‘And who are _you_?’

‘Hermione Granger.’

‘ _Granger_?’ he repeated, raising a pale eyebrow. ‘I’ve never heard of your family before.’

‘That’s because my parents are Muggles,’ Hermione said sniffily, almost daring him to say something about it.

Malfoy opened his mouth to do just that, but Nott (apparently sensing danger) cut in before he had the chance. ‘How interesting,’ he said, not sounding interested in the slightest. He turned to Harry. ‘Don’t you live in the Muggle world, too, Evans?’

Harry nodded slowly, wondering where he was going with this. ‘Yeah, I do.’

Nott hummed impassively, his blank face betraying no hint of emotion. Malfoy, on the other hand, recoiled for a moment, disgusted; then, suddenly, his face smoothed back into a confident sneer.

‘That explains why you’re hanging around such riff-raff. You mustn’t know any better,’ Malfoy said patronisingly. ‘You see, some wizarding families are better than others. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.’

Harry was vividly reminded of the posh, sneering boys at her primary school who laughed at her scruffy clothes and her strange name; the boys who cornered her in classrooms and shoved her in corridors. Instinctively, her hands clenched into fists.

‘My mother was _“the wrong sort”_ , thank you very much,’ she said, her face flushing with indignation. ‘And so am I.’

‘Clearly,’ Malfoy sneered. He looked her up and down, taking in her scruffy appearance as though seeing her for the first time. ‘You ought to be a bit politer, Evans,’ he said slowly. ‘You don’t want go the same way as her.’

‘Yes, well, someone’s already tried that, haven’t they?’ Harry said coolly.

Whatever Malfoy expected her to say, it had obviously not been that; he blanched, seemingly struck silent. Nott and Zabini exchanged a look behind his back.

Harry slowly got to her feet, preparing for a fight, but to her surprise Zabini glanced at the expensive-looking watch on his wrist and said, quite calmly, ‘I think we’ll go now, won’t we, Theo?’

Nott nodded. ‘Yes, I think we will. Pleasure to meet you, Evans.’

And with that, the two boys departed, leaving Malfoy alone in the doorway. He seemed to deflate slightly as he realised his companions had left him to fend for himself. He shot one last glare at Harry (as though it was _her_ fault he had been abandoned) before he turned round and followed suit, leaving Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville in peace.

  
ᛋ

  
Before they knew it, the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the train began slowing down. Harry ducked out of the compartment to change into her robes, and by the time she returned, the train had come to a halt.

The group pushed their way towards the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform, where an impossibly large man with a lamp herded them, along with the other first-years, down a steep, narrow path.

‘Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,’ the man called over his shoulder, ‘jus’ round this bend here.’

The narrow path had opened suddenly, and Harry let out a gasp. They were now standing at the edge of a dark, glittering lake. Across from them, a vast castle was perched atop a high mountain, its towers and turrets spiralling up into a sky filled with stars. 

It felt so much like a dream that Harry pinched herself; she felt a rush of relief and excitement when she did not suddenly wake up.

She and Hermione packed into a boat with Ron and Neville, who was clutching Trevor so tightly that Harry worried the toad might burst. Nobody spoke as the boats glided across the lake; they were all staring reverently up at the great castle that towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

The little fleet of boats passed through a curtain of ivy, through a dark tunnel beneath the castle, until they reached a small, underground harbour. They climbed out of the boats and up a set of stone steps until they reached a large oak door, where a stern-looking woman in deep emerald robes was waiting.

She introduced herself as Professor McGonagall, and she told them all about the houses and the point system. Before she left, she shot a pointed look at Neville, who had accidentally fastened his uniform beneath his left ear, and told the group to smarten up.

Harry’s stomach gave a jolt. She had never been more nervous in her entire life. Beside her, Hermione was running through a list of the spells she knew and wondering which ones she would need to use. For some odd reason, this did not help Harry’s mood in the slightest.

Finally, Professor McGonagall returned and ushered them into a line. Harry fell in step behind Ron, who had gone remarkably pale and was muttering something about trolls. Harry desperately hoped the Great Hall would be troll-less.

They walked out of the chamber, back across the corridor and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall. Harry was in awe at the sight of it.

Hundreds of candles floated above four long, gleaming oak tables, which were littered with golden plates and goblets. The velvety ceiling would have been entirely dark, if not for the thousands of twinkling stars that spilt across it. It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, but Hermione, who had been standing behind her, leant close and whispered, ‘It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside, I read about it in _Hogwarts: A History_.’

Harry finally tore her eyes away from the ceiling just as Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool and a ragged, patched hat in front of them. A rip near the brim opened, and the hat burst into song, explaining how it worked and the traits of each house to the crowd of nervous first-years.

At last, it finished, and Professor McGonagall stepped forward. In her hands was a long roll of parchment, which she unravelled delicately before calling out, ‘Abbott, Hannah!’

A pigtailed girl stumbled up to the stool, put on the hat, and sat down. After a moment’s pause, the hat shouted, ‘HUFFLEPUFF!’

The table on the far right of the hall cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at it table, and Harry smiled despite her nerves. It seemed her idea about Hufflepuffs had been correct: they looked a very welcoming bunch.

Right on down the list Professor McGonagall went, until—

‘Evans, Harry.’

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out all over the Hall (‘Evans, did she say?’ ‘ _The_ Harry Evans?’). The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over her eyes was hundreds curious of faces staring up at her.

 _Now, where to put you,_ said a small voice in her ear. Harry jumped slightly, and the hat chuckled.

 _Plenty of determination, I see. Loyal, too. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes, and a thirst to prove yourself— You would do well in Slytherin… You could be great_ , it said, and Harry was reminded of that day in Ollivander’s ( _‘— terrible, yes, but great’_ ).

‘But I don’t want that,’ thought Harry. ‘I don’t want to be great; I want to be _good_.’

The hat chuckled once more. _Oh, I see…Yes, yes, I see now. I know just the place for you…_

Harry swallowed nervously, gripping the stool tightly as she waited.

‘HUFFLEPUFF!’

The Hall was still— absolutely still— seemingly having been shocked into silence. Likely, they had expected she would go into the heroic house of Godric Gryffindor, as her mother had. It seemed nobody had expected Hufflepuff— not even the Hufflepuffs, who appeared just as stunned as anyone else; then, all at once, the entire Hufflepuff table erupted into cheers.

Harry took off the hat and walked shakily towards the Hufflepuff table. Cedric Diggory caught her eye and grinned at her as she passed, and ‘Abbott, Hannah’ moved over to make room at the end of the table for her. 

Harry could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest her sat Professor McKinnon, who looked angelic in a set of golden robes that glistered in the candlelight. Harry caught her eye and waved happily at her. Professor McKinnon waved back, looking mildly bemused.

‘Finch-Fletchley, Justin’, a curly-haired boy with an almost insufferably smug face, was the next to be sorted into Hufflepuff. After him, it was Hermione’s turn. She ran to the stool in her excitement, and Harry smiled fondly as she shoved the hat onto her head. The hat seemed to deliberate for a while before loudly shouting out, ‘HUFFLEPUFF!’

Harry clapped enthusiastically as Hermione rushed over to sit down beside her. She was glad to have one of her new friends in her house, but she felt strangely troubled: Hufflepuff hadn’t been among the houses Hermione said she wanted. What if Hermione was upset about her sorting?

‘What happened to Gryffindor?’ Harry asked quietly.

Hermione turned a bit pink at this, though Harry could not fathom why. ‘I changed my mind,’ she said simply, and that was that.

Neville took a very long time to be sorted— almost as long as Harry had— but when the hat finally made its decision, he was placed in Gryffindor.

Ron was near the very end, and he sat on the stool for just a brief moment before the hat shouted, ‘GRYFFINDOR!’

Blaise Zabini was the last to be sorted (‘SLYTHERIN!’), and then Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the stool away. Professor Dumbledore (whom Harry recognised both from her history books and her budding Chocolate Frog card collection) gave a funny little speech before, suddenly, the golden plates in front of her filled with food.

Harry had never seen so much food in her life. It was almost grotesquely extravagant, and she wondered, vaguely, how much of it would actually be eaten, and how much of it would be wasted. Determined not to let anything go to waste, Harry piled her plate with bits of everything, even the foods she had never tried before.

Beside her, Hermione had already begun discussing lessons.

‘— And I do hope they start straight away, there’s so much to learn,’ she said eagerly.

‘Oooh, I know! Isn’t it so exciting?’ a rosy-cheeked, freckled girl chimed in. ‘My parents are both Muggles, but my sister Gwen is a witch, like me, so I’ve seen some magic before— but I’ve never seen anything like this,’ she said, motioning at the splendour of the Great Hall.

The pigtailed Hannah Abbott dropped her fork, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as she whispered, ‘Wait, is your sister Gwenog Jones?’

‘Yeah, she is,’ said the freckled girl, who was now beaming with pride. ‘My name’s Megan Jones, by the way.’

Harry’s face scrunched up in confusion. ‘Who’s Gwenog Jones?’ she asked, wondering if she had forgotten someone important from _Modern Magical History_.

‘Only the best Seeker in the entire league!’ Hannah gushed. ‘She plays for the Holyhead Harpies. They’re an all-female Quidditch team. She’s _very_ famous— not as famous as you, of course.’

‘Well, that’s not really fair, Hannah. I don’t think anyone’s as famous as Evans, except maybe Dumbledore,’ said the sandy-haired boy sitting opposite them.

‘Ernie, don’t be rude!’ Hannah said reproachfully. ‘You shouldn’t talk about people as if they aren’t there! You haven’t even introduced yourself to her.’

Harry (very diplomatically, in her opinion) did not point out that Hannah had just done that exact thing. Neither did the boy, who, Harry noted, at least had the decency to look somewhat abashed as he reached out his hand across the table.

‘My apologies, Evans,’ he said, a bit pink in the face. ‘I’m Ernie Macmillan.’

‘Er— It’s all right. And you can call me Harry,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘Do you two know one another?’ she asked, looking curiously between Ernie and Hannah.

Hannah nodded. ‘Oh, yes! Ernie and Susan—’ she gestured to a quiet, red-haired girl towards the end of the table ‘—live nearby my Gran’s house, and our parents all work at the Ministry together.’

‘The Ministry of Magic governs the wizarding world, doesn’t it?’ Hermione cut in. ‘What do your parents do there?’

Harry frowned slightly, confused. There was no way Hermione didn’t know all about what the Ministry was— not with the extensive reading she’d done. But as Hannah launched into a (rather simplified) explanation of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Harry felt a rush of gratitude towards her friend for changing the topic.

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food disappeared from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the puddings appeared, and Harry’s jaw dropped. Before her stood towers of strawberries, blocks of ice-cream in unfamiliar flavours, stacks of apple pies, and large bowls of rice pudding…

Even after she cleared her plate (having once again sampled a bit of everything), Harry noticed there was still an entire basket of untouched biscuits sitting right in front of her. She snuck a glance around to make sure no-one was watching before quickly squirrelling half a dozen of them away in her robes. 

As she tucked the last biscuit in her pocket, she felt a pair of eyes watching her, and she looked up at the Head Table. One of the professors, a slight man in an almost comically large purple turban, was staring right at her. Even from far away, Harry could tell he had been observing her with interest. She felt herself flush at having been caught, but she did not put any of the biscuits back.

The professor turned away to speak to a colleague, and as he did, a sharp, sudden pain shot across Harry’s scar.

‘Ouch!’ Harry hissed, clapping a hand to her head.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Hermione, taking a break from lecturing Megan and Hannah on Transfiguration to stare at Harry with concern.

’N-nothing,’ she said quietly, shaking her head. ‘Just a headache.’

Hermione pursed her lips. ‘Well, all that sugar you ate can’t possibly have been good for you,’ she said smartly. ‘Drink some water.’

Harry took her advice, but by the time she got hold of the water jug, the pain was gone, and it was forgotten entirely soon after, when Professor Dumbledore got to his feet and cleared his throat. The Hall fell silent.

‘Now that we are all fed and watered, I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First and foremost, students ought to note that the Forbidden Forest is, as its name implies, off-limits to students. Additionally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.’

Harry was not sure whether she ought to laugh— it was such a ridiculous thing to say, but he sounded completely serious. 

He went on, listing a few (comparatively) mundane, reasonable rules; then, he clapped his hands and dismissed them, instructing first-years to follow their Prefects to their new dormitories.

  
ᛋ

  
After making the short trek down a flight of stairs, clambering through a barrel, and following their Prefect into an underground tunnel, Harry finally made it to her new dormitory.

Before the sorting, Professor McGonagall had informed them that their housemates would be their family and their dormitories would be their home for the next seven years. Upon seeing this new home, Harry hoped desperately that this was the case, because she had never seen a room so cosy and inviting.

Three four-posters sat flush against opposite walls, draped in soft yellow hangings that matched perfectly with the patchwork quilts covering the fluffy beds. Copper bed-warmers were hung nearby, though Harry had a feeling she wouldn’t need them; the bright, earthy room was warm enough already.

Sitting at the foot of each bed was a small desk with a matching bookcase nestled between it and the wall. The floor was blanketed in a thick, dark carpet that reminded Harry of freshly tilled soil, and the walls were the colour of honey. The circular door that served as the entrance to the room had a small notice board hung on it, as well as a trio of burnished copper plaques that read the name of the occupants: _‘H. Evans’, ‘H. Granger’,_ and _‘M. Jones’_.

Harry was happy to find that their trunks had already been brought up, because she was so exhausted from the events of the day that she barely had the energy to rifle through it in search of her pyjamas. It seemed her new roommates were just as tired, because nobody talked much as they got ready to go to sleep. The moment she finished changing, Harry collapsed onto the soft bed, smiling contentedly.

She did not know what the next day would bring, but at least for now, Harry was certain she was the happiest, luckiest girl in the entire world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to update! It's been a wild few months, but things have calmed down quite a bit for me and I hope to get a few more chapters up soon!
> 
> P.S. Please comment below to let me know if you enjoyed this chapter or if you have any questions or suggestions!


	3. I. Highs and Lows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a witch takes flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I take quite a long time between updates, so I’ve started a Discord server for this fic. This way, we can all get together and chat between updates! The link will be down in the footnotes!

From the moment Harry left her dormitory next morning, she was followed by wide eyes and whispers (‘— over there, the tall one with the dark hair—’ ‘Yes, yes, the Hufflepuff—’ ‘Did you see her face?’ ‘Did you see her scar?’). At breakfast, people stood on tiptoe to get a look at her or doubled back to pass her on their way into the Great Hall, staring.

It was a novel experience, to say the very least. At St Andrew’s, she was the strange girl nobody but the sisters spoke to, and at primary school, the combination of her scruffy boyishness and status as an orphan often meant she was pushed about by the other students (though she could give as good as she got). Harry hadn’t realised how much comfort that relative anonymity had afforded her; it seemed everywhere she went at Hogwarts, her fame followed.

But despite the novelty of it all, Harry managed to adjust to Hogwarts rather quickly. In the first few days, she spent quite a lot of time exploring the castle, sometimes by herself, but more often with Neville or Ron who, by virtue of their sorting, she did not share many classes with. Together, they traversed the ancient stone corridors and the lush, sprawling grounds; alone, Harry climbed the turrets that spiralled high into the sky and took note of secluded corners she could slip off to when the stares and whispers grew too much.

On their third morning at Hogwarts, Megan had received a letter from her sister containing the secret location of the kitchens. She promptly shared this information with Harry, who she took to dragging along with her each time she craved treats between classes. (Harry would sigh and protest weakly, but secretly she enjoyed the refuge provided by these impromptu recesses.)

When she wasn’t scouting or snacking, Harry could be found in the back of the library, sitting beneath the large stained-glass windows with Hermione, books and parchment and bottles of ink spread about on their table. They sat in an easy, comfortable silence (lest they attract the ire of Madam Pince, the librarian), working on their homework and attempting to read as far ahead in their books as they could manage. 

Harry hadn’t exactly been the best student at her primary school, but there was something different about Hogwarts, something that made her _want_ to learn. No longer was she spending hours studying maths or wasting away in some fluorescent-lit classroom, listening to a disinterested teacher drone on about geography; instead, she was learning the names of stars in Astronomy and looking after the plants that flowered in the hothouse where Herbology met.

Herbology was taught by the head of Harry’s house: the aptly named Professor Sprout, who was a short, plump witch with greying hair and a ceaselessly cheery disposition.

It was a large class compared to what Harry had been used to at her primary school, and she was happy to find that the Hufflepuffs were combined with the Gryffindors. Professor Sprout split them into pairs with one Hufflepuff and one Gryffindor each. This was to ensure ‘inter-house unity’, something which Professor Sprout seemed to value quite a lot.

Harry had hoped to be paired with Ron or Neville, but instead, she was grouped with an unfamiliar Gryffindor girl who looked too star-struck to introduce herself. 

After a brief, awkward silence, Harry offered her hand and gave her name.

‘I _know_ who you are!’ the girl squeaked, then promptly turned red. She belatedly took Harry’s hand. ‘I’m Lavender Brown.’

Lavender, despite her name, turned out not to be very good at Herbology. She didn’t like all of the dirt and bugs crawling around on the various plants that flowered in the hothouse. Harry could not blame her for this; it was only her deep interest in their curious magical properties that kept her from shying away from the tangled greenery they were studying herself.

Next was Transfiguration, which was taught by Professor McGonagall, who spent most of the first class giving them a very stern talking-to about the complexities and dangers of her subject.

‘Messing around in my class will not be tolerated,’ she said seriously. ‘Transfiguration is the most dangerous magic you will ever perform at Hogwarts; a single error can be disastrous and I will not allow anyone to put themselves or their classmates at risk…

‘Permanent Transfiguration is extremely difficult to do, even for adult wizards. As such, most Transfigurations you perform in your first few years here _will not be permanent_. Your spell will be temporary and when it wears off, the object will revert to its original state— _this_ is what makes Transfiguration so dangerous. Imagine, for example, what would happen if you were to Transfigure a matchstick into water and allowed someone to drink it. The consequences would be fatal…’

Professor McGonagall gave them a sharp look before continuing, ‘You are never, _under any circumstances_ , to Transfigure a solid object into a liquid or a vapour and you are never to Transfigure any human being, especially yourself, until I have given you explicit permission to do so. Am I understood?’

The class, half-stunned, half-frightened, murmured their assent.

‘Good.’ Professor McGonagall nodded. ‘Anyone who violates these rules will leave this class and not come back. You have been warned.’

Then, she changed her desk into a pig and back again, which Harry thought was a very clever way to lighten the mood of the class.

After a complicated lecture on the factors one had to take into account when performing a Transfiguration (which included mass, viciousness, wand power, and concentration), she set them about turning matchsticks into needles.

It was, indeed, difficult work. By the end of the lesson, Harry’s match had only gone a bit silver, and Hermione wound up being the only person in the entire class who was able to fully transform her match, earning two points to Hufflepuff and a smile from Professor McGonagall.

Charms wound up being Harry’s favourite because, despite Professor Flitwick falling off the little pile of books he stood on when he reached Harry’s name on the register, he proved to be a very capable instructor. He gave an interesting lecture on proper wand movements and pronunciation, and Harry even earned her first house point when she was able to answer a question about the levitation spell she’d practised over the summer.

Harry’s first Astronomy lesson was a shocking experience. She had never before been outside the bright, hazy sky of London, and, when she reached the observatory atop the Astronomy tower (after being woken at half-eleven by Hermione), she could not help but gasp: the night was pitch-black, clear and wild with stars. The observatory seemed perpetually cold and gusty, but Harry did not care, not when a simple glance through her telescope showed her another world, one full of comets and constellations.

History of Magic was equally as fascinating— and not just because it was taught by Professor McKinnon. They would meet twice a week in a beautiful classroom on the second floor with high windows that overlooked the sloping lawns of the grounds and walls that were covered in old maps, and Harry would listen eagerly as Professor McKinnon told them about the earliest evidences of magic and ancient practises lost to time.

Harry had been eager for Defence Against the Dark Arts, which sounded both interesting and useful, but it quickly became one of her least favourite classes.

For one, the classroom smelt so strongly of garlic that it gave Harry a headache. Worse than that, though, was that the instructor, Professor Quirrell, was a terrible liar. He told them his turban had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but whenever he was asked how exactly he had managed to fight off the zombie, he went pink and changed the subject.

At first, Harry felt a bit bad for the man, who had a terrible stutter and was mocked relentlessly for it, but she soon began to find him somewhat unsettling. She noticed that he spent quite a lot of time watching her and often called on her to answer questions out the textbook, even when she hadn’t raised her hand at all (a habit that did not at all endear him to Hermione, who eagerly raised her hand whether she had been called on or not).

By far the worst class, however, was Potions.

Potions lessons took place down in the dungeons, which, despite being located relatively nearby the Hufflepuff Basement, were not nearly as warm or welcoming. Instead of the glowing sunlight and interesting potted plants that decorated the Basement, the Potions classroom was damp and dark, decorated with dead plants and pickled animals that floated in glass jars all around the walls.

The class was taught by Professor Snape, who started the class by taking the register. Like Flitwick, he paused when he reached Harry’s name; _unlike_ Flitwick, however, he looked distinctly revolted by her presence in his classroom.

‘Harry Evans,’ he said, spitting her name as though it was something foul. ‘Our new… _celebrity_.’

Harry exchanged nervous glances with Hermione and Megan, who seemed to be just as shocked by the professor’s inexplicable dislike as she was.

‘You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,’ said Professor Snape, once he had finished calling names. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but Harry caught every word of the small, serious speech he gave the class. ‘…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death— if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.’

The dungeon was dead silent; nobody dared to talk. Beside Harry, Hermione sat on the edge of her seat, looking desperate to prove herself to Snape, who was coldly surveying the class.

‘ _You_ —’ He whirled suddenly on Harry, who jumped slightly. ‘—what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?’

Hermione’s hand shot into the air instantly, but it took Harry a second longer to come up with an answer.

‘Er— A sleeping potion, sir?’ she said uncertainly.

Snape looked at her with marked distaste. ‘Clearly, fame isn’t everything,’ he said snidely. ‘The result of such a combination would be only a _partially-complete_ potion. The Draught of Living Death also requires valerian root, sloth brain, and sopophorous bean.’

Harry knew that neither _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ nor _Magical Draughts and Potions_ had gone into anywhere near that level of detail, but she also knew better than to say so.

‘Let’s try again… Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?’

‘It would depend what sort you need, wouldn’t it?’ Harry said cautiously; Snape’s cold gaze and disparaging tone had only strengthened her resolve to answer the question perfectly. ‘Because all sorts of animals can make them.’

Snape’s eyes narrowed at her for a moment, scrutinising her closely, as though suspicious she had somehow cheated. Without even confirming whether or not she’d been right, he asked, ‘And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?’

Harry’s face flushed with indignation: this was the _third_ trick question in a row that Snape had asked her, and it was growing increasingly obvious to Harry that he _wanted_ her to fail; he _wanted_ her to embarrass herself in front of her classmates. She’d had teachers like this before, teachers that revelled in tormenting their students— particularly students with no family to defend them— but Harry had thought (erroneously, it seemed) that Hogwarts would be different.

‘There isn’t one,’ she said sharply. ‘They’re the same plant.’

Again, Snape did not confirm her answer, but he didn’t need to: the infuriated look on his face was proof enough of her success.

‘I suppose you think yourself very clever,’ he sneered, ‘for _deigning_ to open your textbook before arriving in my classroom, but be warned: it will take more than a bit of luck to be successful in this class.’

He looked at her expectantly, as though anticipating that this statement would provoke some sort of response from her, but Harry refused to rise to the bait; she remained silent and still, staring up at Snape in furious disbelief until he, at last, looked away and began splitting the class into pairs.

Harry spent the rest of class brewing a simple cure for boils with Hermione and trying to ignore the way Snape swept around the classroom, watching them all. His constant, cruel criticism of the class only solidified Harry’s burgeoning dislike for the man. If there was one thing she loathed, it was a bully, and teacher or no, Professor Snape had proved himself to be exactly that.

Hermione was a much more active partner than Lavender Brown had been, constantly peering over Harry’s shoulder to make sure she was weighing nettles properly or crushing their snake fangs with the correct knife. Harry found this more than a little insulting, but when, forty minutes later, they had finally completed their potion, any misgivings Harry might’ve had about partnering with Hermione over Megan vanished: it was perfect.

Even Snape couldn’t find a single fault with what Harry and Hermione brewed (though he certainly paid more time examining their vial than he had anyone else’s), and he dismissed them without a word.

  
ᛋ

  
The first Sunday of term dawned not bright and shining, but muted and calm. Sunbeams trickled in through the high, circular windows of the Hufflepuff basement, where Harry sat curled up by the warm glow of the fireplace, _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ open in her lap. Around her, the room was silent and still, nearly empty. (The night before, one of the upper-years had hosted a small social that inevitably turned into a house-wide event, and most everyone had stayed up late into the night, talking and eating and— in the case of the older students— taking surreptitious swigs of a suspiciously amber-coloured drink.)

Harry sat in silence for a while, soaking up the sunlight and solitude until she heard a creaking on the floors. She looked up from the pages of her book to find Cedric Diggory standing nearby. He was not in his uniform, but in a crisp, casual set of dark robes that looked startlingly immaculate for such an early hour, especially when contrasted with Harry’s appearance: gingham pyjamas gone soft with age, hair still dishevelled from slumber. 

She felt a bit silly being so under-dressed, but Harry still smiled and greeted him. She hadn’t had much chance to speak with Cedric since her sorting (he was a popular boy, and seemed to be constantly surrounded by a throng of his Quidditch teammates), but based on what little conversation they’d had thus far, Harry decided she liked him. He was sunny and sportive and Harry appreciated that he treated her in the same manner he treated everyone else: as kindly and casually as he would an old friend.

‘Morning, Harry,’ Cedric said cheerily. ‘You’re up early.’

‘I usually am,’ Harry said, and it was true. At St Andrew’s, she had often risen early, as the only time of day that the building was not bustling with activity of some sort had been early in the morning, when the sun was still below the horizon and everyone was slumbering. The habit had followed her to Hogwarts, which, though far more comfortable, was no less busy.

Cedric nodded understandingly, then glanced down at the book in her lap. ‘Working on Transfiguration,’ he observed. ‘Smart of you.’

‘Professor McGonagall expects us to be able to Transfigure a teaspoon to a matchbox by next week,’ Harry said, grimacing. ‘I’d like to be prepared.’

‘Don’t look so down,’ said Cedric, shooting her a lopsided grin. ‘I’m sure you’ll be all right… You’ve still got flying lessons to look forward to, haven’t you?’

This reminder did not improve Harry’s mood. She _had_ been looking forward to learning how to fly— until a notice was pinned to the door of her dormitory informing the first-years that all four houses would be learning how to fly together on Thursday. Harry was very much _not_ looking forward to facing Draco Malfoy again. 

Harry had managed to avoid speaking to him thus far, as Hufflepuff hadn’t yet had a class with the Slytherins, but Malfoy still managed to be absolutely insufferable. He was (from what Harry managed to gather from Ron’s indignant rants and Neville’s alarm at the mention of his name) a terrible bully, and spoilt rotten on top of that.

He complained constantly (and loudly) about almost everything, from the competence of Headmaster Dumbledore to the quality of the food served in the Great Hall, but Malfoy’s favourite complaint was that first-years never got in the house Quidditch teams. He felt this was wildly unfair, and often told long, boastful stories of various believability that almost always seemed to end with him narrowly avoiding collisions with helicopters.

‘They’ve put the entire year together,’ Harry said grimly. ‘We’ll be with the Slytherins.’

Cedric did not frown, but a small crease appeared between his dark brows. ‘They’re not so terrible as everyone says, you know.’

‘Not _all_ of them,’ Harry conceded, ‘but _some_ of them are absolute prats and I’d prefer not to make a fool of myself on a broom in front of them.’

‘Well, don’t you let anyone make you nervous. Flying isn’t so hard, once you get used to it,’ he advised, with all the exasperating confidence of someone who had several years experience on a broomstick. At Harry’s sceptical look, he let out an amused snort of laughter. ‘I could give you a few tips, if you’d like.’

Harry nodded eagerly— she needed all the help she could get. She listened attentively as Cedric launched into a thorough dissection of flying, taking her from how to grip the handle of a broom to the rules and mechanics of Quidditch, and by the time he had finished, most of Hufflepuff house had risen and the common room around them was buzzing with activity.

‘Nearly time for breakfast, isn’t it?’ said Harry, looking around at her housemates.

‘Nearly,’ Cedric agreed, and they both rose out of their chairs.

‘I ought to dress, then… Er— thanks, by the way,’ said Harry, who was halfway to her dormitory, ‘for your advice.’

Cedric gave her one last grin. ‘That’s what Hufflepuffs do,’ he said. ‘We help each other.’

  
ᛋ

  
By Thursday, Harry felt quite a bit more confident about flying (though she was no less irritated that she would have to learn with Malfoy), and at three-thirty, Harry, Hermione, Megan, and the other Hufflepuffs shuffled through the entryway and out onto the grounds, chattering excitedly about their upcoming lesson.

Megan had become exceptionally popular in the past few days and she was surrounded by a small herd of students, all of whom were listening intently to her every word as she told a story about her famous, Quidditch-playing sister. Harry, glad to have a reprieve from their attention, hung toward the back of the group, trying to assuage an anxious Hermione. (Unlike Charms or Transfiguration, flying was not something Hermione could memorise out of a book— though not for lack of trying; she had spent the past several days scouring the library for anything that would help.)

‘And the trick is you have to sound confident, even if you’re scared,’ Harry advised. 

‘I am _not_ scared,’ said a stubborn Hermione, who (despite her insistence to the contrary) sounded beside herself with fear. ‘I just don’t think flying on a broomstick is a sensible mode of transportation; it’s _impractical_.’

Harry did not believe her for a moment, but she nodded understandingly regardless, because that seemed like the sort of thing a good friend would do.

The group continued marching down the sloping lawns towards a smooth lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the Forbidden Forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance. The Ravenclaws and Slytherins were already there, and so were forty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground.

Harry rushed to the nearest broom. It was old and obviously well-used, with a worn handle and twigs that stuck out at odd angles, but Harry found it fascinating. She could just imagine soaring high in the air, above the clouds, crossing a full moon under the cover of night like a witch from a fairytale.

She was torn from her reverie by the familiar voices of Ron and Neville, who had come bounding down the hill along with the rest of the Gryffindors.

‘You’ll be fine, Neville,’ said Ron, who sounded as though he was having this conversation for the thousandth time (Harry suspected he probably was: Neville was already famous amongst the first-years for his extraordinary clumsiness). ‘Harry, tell him he’ll be fine.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ Harry said at once, trying to sound more certain of this than she really was.

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived a moment later. ‘Right then,’ she said, ‘everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up… Now, stick out your hand over your broom and say, “Up!”’

‘UP!’ everyone shouted.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end and walked up and down the rows, correcting their grips. Harry was delighted to overhear that Malfoy had been doing it wrong for years.

‘Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground,’ said Madam Hooch. ‘Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forwards slightly. On my whistle— three, two—’

But Neville, who was nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle sounded.

Madam Hooch shouted after him, but Neville seemed to be out-of-control. He was rising high in the air; ten feet, twenty feet… Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw slip sideways off the broom and then— _WHAM!_ With a thud and a nasty crack, Neville fell onto the grass in a heap, his now riderless broomstick still rising higher and higher in the air.

Madam Hooch ran over to Neville, her face white. ‘Broken wrist… Come on, it’s all right, up you get.’ She turned to the rest of the class. ‘None of you are to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say “Quidditch”— Come on, dear.’

Neville, his face ruddy and streaked with tears, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him. No sooner were they out of earshot than Draco Malfoy decided to make trouble.

‘Look!’ he said, darting forward and snatching up something that was glistering in the grass. ‘It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.’

He held up a glass ball the size of a large marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke. Harry had absolutely no idea what it was, but it hardly mattered; she was not about to let Malfoy steal from one of her friends.

‘Give that here, Malfoy,’ said Harry sharply. Everyone stopped talking at once.

Malfoy smiled nastily. ‘Why? Were you going to steal it from him yourself? I bet you were planning on selling it— it must be worth more than anything you own.’

Harry’s hands clenched into fists. She wanted to say something clever, something witty, but all she could think to do was repeat herself: ‘Give it here!’ she snapped again, but Malfoy had already leapt on to his broomstick and taken off. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, ‘Come and take it then, Evans!’

Harry reached for her broom.

‘ _Don’t!_ ’ Hermione shouted, grabbing Harry’s arm to hold her back. ‘Madam Hooch told us not to move— Malfoy isn’t worth getting in trouble for!’

‘I know _he_ isn’t,’ Harry said, mounting her broom, ‘but Neville’s my friend.’

‘Harry, you don’t even know how to—’

But Harry wasn’t listening. She had broken free of Hermione’s grip and kicked off from the ground. She shot up into the clear sky, air rushing through her hair and adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her heart was beating rapidly and Harry realised, in a fierce rush of joy, that this was something she could do, something she was good at. Cedric had been right: flying was _easy_.

She knew, somehow, exactly what to do: she pulled her broom up even higher and turned sharply towards Malfoy. Back on the ground, her classmates’ gasps were drowned out by Hermione’s shouting (‘Harry, stop!’) and Megan’s cheers (‘Get him, Harry!’); Ron was whistling; Malfoy was gaping at her with almost as much disbelief as Harry felt.

‘Give it to me now or you’ll be sorry, Malfoy,’ Harry said, in what she hoped was an intimidating tone.

‘Oh, will I?’ Malfoy’s sneering voice was confident, but his face betrayed him: he was growing increasingly unsure.

‘Yeah,’ said Harry, and she leant forward, grasping her broom tightly. The broom darted forward, rushing right in Malfoy’s direction. He only just got out of the way in time; Harry made another sharp turn and faced him, glaring. ‘Last chance, Malfoy.’

‘All right then, have it your way,’ he said, and he threw the glass ball up into the air and raced back to the ground.

Harry saw it as though in slow motion: the ball rose high above her and then started to fall. She leant forward and pointed her broom down, and next second she was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball. Wind whistled in her ears, mingled with the screams of people watching; she stretched out her hand, and a foot from the ground she caught it, just in time to straighten and topple gently on to the grass with the ball clutched safely in her hand.

‘HARRY JANE EVANS!’

Harry’s stomach fell out from beneath her; Professor McKinnon had appeared, and she was sprinting towards them now. Harry got to her feet, feeling as though she was about to sick up.

‘How _dare_ you— flying like that—’ Professor McKinnon looked to be nearly speechless with shock. ‘You could have been _killed_!’

‘Professor, it wasn’t her fault—’

‘Quiet, Mister Weasley—’

‘But Malfoy started it! He stole Neville’s Remembrall and took off with it— Harry was just getting it back!’ Megan cried, and most of the class echoed her.

Professor McKinnon paused for a moment, looking between Harry and Malfoy.

‘In that case, I will be taking twenty points each from your respective houses,’ she said, so sternly and so seriously that even Malfoy didn’t dare speak; then, she turned to address the class at large and said, ‘Everyone is to leave the brooms and return to the castle. You are dismissed— except you, Harry.’

Harry caught the briefest glimpse of fury on Malfoy’s face before he, along with the rest of the class, turned round and made their way inside. Harry wanted to ask why Malfoy wasn’t asked to stay behind with her— it wasn’t fair that she should be in more trouble than him just because she had done a simple dive— but she couldn’t speak; her throat had gone completely dry.

Once everyone had gone, Professor McKinnon turned to her and said, seriously, ‘Do you understand how dangerous that was, Harry? You might have broken your neck!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said, ‘but Malfoy would’ve broken Neville’s Remembrall if I hadn’t gone after him.’

Professor McKinnon peered down at Harry, staring at her for a long moment before, to Harry’s arrant surprise, she smiled at her and said, ‘As rashly as you behaved, it was kind of you to retrieve Longbottom’s Remembrall, Harry… Your mother would be proud of you for defending your friend like that.’

To Harry— who had never known her mother, who had only learnt what she even looked like a month prior, whose knowledge of her life seemed to revolve entirely around the way she died— this was the best compliment she had ever received. She could not think what to say aside from a quiet, ‘Thank you.’

‘Now, then,’ said Professor McKinnon, whose kind smile had morphed into something a touch more mischievous, ‘what do you know about Quidditch?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking 90 years on this. I know it still isn't perfect, but I also know that I have insanely high standards of perfection for myself so if I hadn't posted it now, it may never have been posted. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> Discord: https://discord.gg/FWhZDsNG86


End file.
